


The Best and Soundest Thing in England

by violet_vernet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Case Fic, Domesticity, John Has Trust Issues, John played rugby for Blackheath, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, The adventure of the missing three-quarter, on holiday (for a case), slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12909186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_vernet/pseuds/violet_vernet
Summary: John's old rugby mate is now coaching for Cambridge, and their star player has gone missing before a big match. John knows the case is only a 4 (maybe a 5 at best), and is just hoping it's interesting enough to distract a dangerously bored Sherlock. But Sherlock is suspiciously willing to take it. "The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter" by Arthur Conan Doyle updated in the style of BBC's Sherlock. [COMPLETE]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote for NaNoWriMo 2013, and I'm just now uploading it to this AO3 account. There's a *slight* chance you've read it before, but only if you've been stalking me on tumblr. ;)

“Bored!”  Sherlock turned sideways and fell like a dead weight onto the sofa, with the edges of his dressing gown fluttering around him.

“What, already?”  John said from behind his newspaper.

“Yes!” Now Sherlock’s arm was flung over his eyes.

“Well, what about your case?” John said, and turned the page.

“Uuuugh, that case was barely worth mentioning, John.  I’ve already solved it.  Textbook domestic, other than that bit with the cooking oil.”

“That’s a shame,” came John’s distracted reply.  “Oh, Tesco’s having a sale on jam this week... I’ll have to remember to go.”

“Jooooooohn!” Sherlock whined, then launched to his feet again and began pacing.  “You’re not listening.  I need a case!”  

“You’ve just had one, Sherlock!” John said, as he slammed his newspaper onto the table.  “Go out and find another one, if you’d like.  Or do an experiment or something!  At any rate, I don’t know what _I’m_ expected to do for you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, and stalked off to find (presumably) something precious of John’s to dip in acid or light on fire.  John decided not to care, and reached for his laptop.

The first thing he saw upon booting up was a word processor document that said _“Really, John?  ‘buggeroffsherlockthisismylaptop’?  You can do better than that.”_  John aggressively clicked the red X on that window, then opened his email, hoping for at least a 7 with which to distract Sherlock.  But the only new message was from one of his former rugby teammates from his old Blackheath days, Cyril Overton.

 

> “John,
> 
> Mate, I’m beside myself.  You know I’ve been coaching at Cambridge?  And surely you know our star threequarter Jeff Staunton, the only university-level player guaranteed to be playing for England in a couple of years.  Well, the thing is… he’s gone missing, I’m afraid.  And seeing as we have a match tomorrow that he KNOWS we won’t win without him, I’m the tiniest bit concerned how he left without telling anyone.  On the other hand, it’s good that this doesn’t get out, you know?  Wouldn’t do for this to become the story and have the match overshadowed.  So I thought, who better to look into it than my old teammate, the private detective?  
> 
> Seriously, John… This could be bad.  Really bad.  Sod the match and the university, it’s Jeff I’m worried about.  I’m really hoping you can help us.  Let me know what you think about taking the case as soon as possible.
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Cyril Overton”

 

John looked up from this email to see Sherlock at the kitchen table, holding what appeared to be a swatch of John’s favorite jumper over the flame of a lit bunsen burner.  John rolled his eyes vigorously and began to type--

 

> “Cy,
> 
> I’d love to help.  Why don’t you come round Baker Street and tell us more about it?  Hopefully it’ll catch Sherlock’s attention, too…”

 

John thought Cy’s case was probably only a four, maybe a five… but maybe Sherlock would take it as a personal favor to John.  Or, at the very least, to get John off Sherlock’s back, because John was not above a bit of judicious nagging if it would save his jumper collection.

“Sherlock, I’ve invited a potential client over… he was one of my teammates back when I played rugby for Blackheath.  He coaches for Cambridge now, and one of his stars has gone missing.”  There was no visible reaction from Sherlock, who continued to experiment on John’s jumper, so John took that as a sign to continue.  

“The lad's only been missing since dinner yesterday, but he left visibly distressed without a word to anybody.  I’d say it was only about a five, but I was hoping --”  
  
“Of course, John,” Sherlock interrupted.  “I mean, it won’t take much of my time to solve this one, but I’m sure it’ll be better than nothing.”  He turned off the bunsen burner and dropped the charred strands of yarn into a beaker of water.  “And given that you replied to your friend less than five minutes ago and the fact that he’s likely to be sitting at a cafe within a short walk from here, I should have just enough time to get ready before he arrives.  If you’ll excuse me,” Sherlock said as he made his way to his bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.  

 John hadn’t even gotten to finish making his request, let alone work up to a really satisfying harangue.  He let himself be puzzled by Sherlock’s unexpectedly quick agreement for just a second, then chalked it up to “Sherlock” and gathered his laptop and newspaper.  Maybe Sherlock really was that bored and willing for a distraction; who knew?  John just hoped Sherlock’s good behavior lasted, suspicious or not.  Of Sherlock’s finding Jeff Staunton, John had no doubt, but of managing to convince Overton they’d done him a favor in the process… with Sherlock this bored going into such a small case, chances of him staying civil throughout were slim. Maybe they’d get lucky, and it would turn out to be more of a diversion than they were expecting.

 

*** * ***

 

When the doorbell rang, John was still finishing up a quick wash in the bathroom.  By the time he returned to the sitting room, he found that Sherlock (already immaculately dressed and groomed) had let Overton in, introduced himself, and was in the process of taking Overton’s coat.  Overton spotted John and roared, “Johnny!” then threw himself at his old friend, crushing John in a huge hug and pounding him on the back.  

(Sherlock took this opportunity to unceremoniously fling Overton’s coat away from himself, in the general direction of furniture but clearly nowhere in the vicinity of the coat hook.)

“Dear God, it’s good to see you, mate,” Overton said at last.  “And not just because of Jeff.  It’s been too long.”  
  
 “It’s good to see you too, Cy,” John said.  “And I agree.  As soon as Jeff’s home safe the first pint’s on me.  I see you’ve met Sherlock --”

“Indeed, John.  I was just asking your friend about the case,” Sherlock said, and if he was interrupting to move the conversation along, he did it with all the professional dignity of someone used to kidnappings and other time-sensitive emergencies and not with his usual terrifying rudeness.  “Mr. Overton, please start from the beginning.  Why are you in London?  When did you arrive?  When did you first notice something was wrong, and what, precisely, did you notice?”  

“We’re in town to play Oxford for a special televised throwback game, with classic-looking jerseys and all.  Huge spectacle, for our level of play.  We got here on Wednesday night; yesterday morning we woke up and practiced on the big pitch, to get the feel of it, and last night we came back to the hotel for the team dinner.  Until then, everything was right as rain.  After dinner the boys got a free evening… well, they’re supposed to take it easy in the hotel, socialize in the lounge or in their rooms, but they can leave, if they really want to, they just have to check out and give us an idea of their plans.  But Jeff didn’t… and it’s not like him, either… that’s the really strange part…” Overton seemed to be getting less coherent as he got more emotional.  John was waiting for Sherlock to roll his eyes and unleash a verbal slap to Overton, but it never happened.  John interceded anyway.

“What exactly happened, Cy?  When was the last time you saw Jeff?”  John asked.

“After dinner, he was in his room with the door open.  The last time I saw him I was doing rounds of the hall, and poked my head in to find him using his laptop.  His roommate Tim was next door with the other two from their line, reviewing old game footage.  The door between their rooms was open, too.  Tim says Jeff apparently got bad news in an email, threw his coat on, and ran outside.  Tim thought maybe Jeff was off to make a private phone call in the parking lot or something and would be right back, but Jeff never came back to sleep or to get his things.  Nobody back at school or among his family has seen or heard from him in the last day, since we left to come here.  And that’s all we know,” Overton concluded.

Once again, John was surprised by the patient, engaged look on Sherlock’s face.  

“Well, Mr. Overton, I think it’s time I see Staunton’s last known whereabouts if I’m to make any progress,” Sherlock said, and pointed at Overton’s rumpled coat on the sofa.  “If you would…?”

“We’re going?” John asked.  “Right now?”  

“Why not?” Sherlock asked innocently, like he hadn’t just been throwing a tantrum and torching John’s belongings.  Like he always rushed to do favors for John, without dragging his feet and complaining.  Like he was pleasant and civilized on a routine basis, and not just when he wanted something.  ‘ _No_ ,’ John thought, ‘ _this is definitely suspicious._ ’


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock practically ran down the stairs to Baker Street, and was in a taxi before John could get the flat’s door locked behind them.  When they arrived at the rugby team’s hotel, Sherlock was inside before John could even get money out for the cabbie.  Was Sherlock… excited?  About this non-entity (John hoped) of a case?

When John and Overton finally made it through the front doors and landed in the hotel lobby, Overton said “Shall I find Tim for you?  I expect you’ll want to interview him, since he was the last one to see Jeff…”   

“Yes, absolutely,” John replied, just as Sherlock called back “No need!” from the top of the stairs, then disappeared around the corner into the hall.  John wasn’t sure how Sherlock knew where Jeff Staunton’s room was, but he obviously did; so John shook his head at Overton and said, “Never mind, let’s just follow the bloody madman.”

By the time they caught up to Sherlock, he was already in Staunton’s room.  In fact, he’d evidently already hacked into Staunton’s laptop and was browsing his emails.

“Any ideas so far?”  John asked.  

“Nothing solid; I need more data…” Sherlock trailed off into silence for a moment, then said triumphantly, “But I think I just found our next lead.”

“Excuse me, sir!” came a querulous voice from the hallway.  All three of them turned toward it simultaneously, to see a short, stout man with sparse tufts of thin white hair randomly clinging to his liver-spotted scalp.  “Unhand that laptop,” said the old man, “or you’ll be responsible for any damage that comes to it!”

“And you are?” Sherlock inquired with a raised eyebrow.  

“The Lord Mount-James, sir, Geoffrey’s uncle, and therefore the only person in this room who has a right to be here!  Who are YOU three, is the question, isn’t it?”

Overton stepped forward hesitantly.  “Hello sir, I’m Cyril Overton, Jeff’s rugby coach and the person who contacted you.  This is Sherlock Holmes, the private detective --”

“Detective!” Lord Mount-James interrupted, sputtering.  “Private detective!  And who proposed to pay for YOU?” he said, advancing on Sherlock and turning a little red in the face.  “I certainly won’t be responsible; you weren’t my idea!”

“But surely you’re concerned about Jeff; he’s your only flesh and blood!” exclaimed Overton.  

“Of course I am; how dare you!” shouted the tiny old man, who by now was quite purple.  “But I didn’t get to where I am by being stupid with my money, and Geoffrey won’t thank me if I squander his inheritance when he’s just off having a nervous breakdown and finding himself!”

“Lord Mount-James,” interjected Sherlock in his poshest and most charming voice.  “perhaps you’ve had such a shock emotionally that you’ve failed to consider a likely motive.  Oh dear, I hate to be the one to suggest such a scandalous thing to you, but... it's possible that someone may have kidnapped Geoffrey because he’s your only living relative, in an attempt to blackmail you.”    

This news hit the Lord Mount-James much like a bucket of cold water; he paled visibly and a soft “oh!” escaped him before he was rendered entirely speechless.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Sherlock said, “I’m prepared to take precautions that will keep you safe if that turns out to be the case; but I thought you needed to be aware of the possibility.”

“Yes, I hadn’t -- of course.  I’m sorry to have doubted your judgement, Mr. Overton.  Of course, it was wise to consult a detective about Geoffrey’s disappearance.  I shall have to tell Liam to lock the good silver in the vault tonight, as well.  And you, sir,” he said sharply, jabbing his umbrella at Sherlock.  “I still don’t approve of extravagance in general… but if you need a few pounds to assist you in the investigation, contact my secretary.” At this, Lord Mount-James extracted a business card from his inside pocket and handed it to Sherlock.  “And I expect regular progress reports, as well.”

“Indeed, sir,” Sherlock drawled in a convincing voice that John knew to be completely insincere.

“Well, I’ll just… leave you to it, then,” said the Lord Mount-James, wringing his hands and staring at Sherlock woefully.  “Do let me know as soon as you’ve… solved anything, won’t you?”

“I shall.  And now, John, I think we must be off,” said Sherlock as he closed the lid of the laptop and stood.  

“Really?  Already?” said Overton, blinking.

“Yes, I think I’ve seen quite enough here to be going on with,” Sherlock said.  He turned to John.  “Shall we?”

“After you,” John replied, with a fond (if a bit puzzled) expression.  Sherlock led the way past Overton and the Lord Mount-James into the hall.  John found him standing at the top of the stairs, hands in the pockets of his coat.  They left the hotel together, and Sherlock hailed a cab almost as soon as they hit the sidewalk.  Once they were comfortably settled inside, it was time to talk.

“You didn’t really think it was blackmail though, did you?”  John asked quietly.  Sherlock’s face lit up with one of its rare genuine smiles.

“No, but I would rather the Lord Mount-James think it was.  Keeps him docile and out of our way,” Sherlock said.

“Bloody heartless bastard,” John said.  “He didn’t give a toss about his nephew, did he?  Just the money.”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock.  Then, after a second, “That bothers you, doesn’t it.  Personally.”  It wasn’t phrased as a question, but John knew what Sherlock was asking.  

“My grandad was like that… he left family to hang more times than I could count, in the name of his precious nest egg.  The way he used to treat Harry, in particular… it infuriated me,” John said, staring out the window.  He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, then said, “Well… people like that get what they deserve.  He died friendless and alone in the end.  I’ve tried to let go, and have faith that karma takes care of itself.”  He shook his head and turned to look at Sherlock.  “Okay then, what’s our next move?”

Sherlock grinned, then said “We’re stopping home for a few things, then we’re off to Cambridge.”  John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock continued, “You don’t have a shift at the surgery until Tuesday, and unless I’m quite mistaken, just this morning you were hoping for the distraction of a case to… keep me busy,” Sherlock enunciated the last bit to show his disdain.  “So, I’ve already booked us train tickets.”  He held his phone up to John’s face, displaying a confirmation page, then dimmed the screen and stowed it in his pocket in one fluid motion.

“Cambridge,” John repeated.  “Right.  I guess that’s the logical next step.  Wait, you said you had a lead, earlier?”

“Nothing concrete, but Staunton did get an email from his Director of Studies urging him to call her as soon as possible, just before he disappeared.  I say we pay Dr. Armstrong a visit.”


	3. Chapter 3

The train ride was surprisingly pleasant, even though Sherlock couldn’t stop deducing the personal lives of the other passengers and collecting angry stares. Or maybe John was so desperate for a holiday that just getting out of London was a relief, Sherlock notwithstanding. Either way, in order to maintain the illusion, John avoided mentioning the case unless Sherlock did. He’d decided that, while his concern for Jeff’s safety was serious, the case was likely to be relatively straightforward, and therefore it was in his best interest to stay out of Sherlock’s way and hope the case’s entertainment value lasted as long as possible.

So when they arrived in Cambridge, John had no idea what Sherlock’s plan was. Based on previous out-of-town cases, he expected to be going to whatever room Sherlock had undoubtedly already rented, to set up base camp. Instead, they pulled up at an immense building with the kind of institutional, mid-century look reminiscent of council flats. “University of Cambridge, Department of Pathology - School of the Biological Sciences,” John read, leaning over Sherlock to peer out his window. “What are we doing here?”

“I thought we’d speak with Dr. Armstrong right away,” Sherlock replied. “Why wait? A man is missing, after all.”

At that he popped out of the cab, leaving John to pay (as usual). Then Sherlock led the way straight to an unassuming and unwelcoming entrance that looked more like a service door than the main entrance to a major university department, as though he had been there many times before. He held the door open for John, who found himself in a dimly lit, wood-panelled lobby about to engage in a three-way collision with a startled departmental secretary and a nearby reception desk. John and the young woman tried and failed to get out of each others’ way a few times, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Hello!” she said at last, smiling at John. “Can I help you?”

“Hello!” Sherlock paused theatrically, practically elbowed his way in between them, and read the woman’s name tag. “Lucy,” he said, with his brightest false smile. “So nice to meet you. Sherlock Holmes, here to see Dr. Leslie Armstrong.”

Lucy’s smile faded as she craned her neck upwards and met Sherlock’s almost maniacally charming grin. “Do you have an appointment?” she said stoically, as though she dealt with aggressively pleasant 6’ detectives in long black coats on a routine basis.

“No, but it’s quite urgent,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, evidently trying to hypnotise Lucy through intense eye contact. “I assure you, Dr. Armstrong will be glad to speak with me, once she knows why I’m here.”

John couldn’t help being a little bit irritated as Lucy flushed slightly and stammered, “Um… okay, let me go see if I can even reach her. Probably not, though. If not, we’ll make you an appointment, don’t worry.” Then she backed awkwardly into the office behind the reception desk, and shut the door. And John was even more irritated when Sherlock dropped the wide-eyed stare abruptly, and shot John a sideways smirk.

They stood there idly for a few minutes, Sherlock occasionally bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet with his hands clasped behind his back, listening to Lucy’s voice murmur behind the door. Finally the door opened again, but only the secretary’s head emerged. This time, she was much less friendly.

“Dr. Armstrong says she only has a minute to address this, but she’ll be with you shortly. You can wait over there,” Lucy said, then nodded at a grubby row of chairs in front of the windows.

Sherlock followed her gaze, then slowly rolled his eyes back at her with disdain. He did not otherwise move to answer her. Finally, John said, “We’re good here, thanks,” then he shot Sherlock a quick frown. Lucy gave John a small, forced smile that did not reach her eyes, then withdrew and shut the door behind her once again.

A moment later, they heard the sharp, firm steps of a well-dressed authority figure striding down the hall, followed by the woman herself. Dr. Leslie Armstrong was a tall woman in her 60s (taller than John, but not quite Sherlock’s height), and her gray suit and short but stylish hair emanated taste and confidence.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said, and did not offer her hand. “I’ll make this brief. I don’t approve of you or your profession. You make your living prying, and exposing people’s personal concerns, and then you call yourself a hero. Frankly, you should leave the criminal matters to the police, and leave everything else alone. Now, before I ask you to go, is there anything I can do for you?” Dr. Armstrong spoke in a calm, conversational tone, but she remained utterly still and never stopped boring into Sherlock with her eyes.

John knew Sherlock was taken aback by this pre-emptive strike from Dr. Armstrong, based on a slight tightening around his eyes. But otherwise he gave no sign of a crack in his composure when he said, “I can assure you that you are quite mistaken, doctor. In most cases, I’m much more discreet than the police, with their clumsy investigative methods and their obligation to report everything they do to the public record. Whereas I, in fact, have a professional and ethical incentive NOT to reveal my clients’ private affairs, and alienate my paying customers by doing so. Now,” said Sherlock, really starting to warm up, “I am here on a matter that might interest you. Geoffrey Staunton was reported missing by his rugby coach Cyril Overton yesterday, and he engaged our services to ensure Staunton’s safety. It turns out that you’re Staunton’s Director of Studies, and,” Sherlock paused for a fraction of an instant and he tilted his head ever so slightly before continuing, “we rather thought you might be concerned about him.”

John correctly took this to mean that Sherlock had concluded Dr. Armstrong already knew about Jeff’s disappearance, and was covering it up. Her unwavering hostility only confirmed this for John.

“Until I hear that from the police, I’ll thank you not to run around making wild accusations and inciting panic for no reason,” Dr. Armstrong spat. “Beyond that, nothing that transpires between myself and my students is any business of yours.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “Well, thank you, doctor; you’ve been most helpful. Come along, John, we’re done here.”

John watched his friend march out of the building for a moment, then nodded to Dr. Armstrong and said “It was nice meeting you… I mean… I’ll just be off then.” She stared at John oddly as he slunk out of the building after Sherlock, who was already on the kerb with his hand out for a taxi.

“What was all that, then?” John asked.

“Not now; wait till we’re on the way,” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on the street.

Even though they were in (relatively) sleepy Cambridge and not bustling London, it didn’t take Sherlock long to secure them a ride. Once again, John had the suspicion that Sherlock was no stranger to the town.

“You seem to know the area pretty well,” John tried.

“Mmm,” was all Sherlock said, eyes glittering but not focused on anything in the taxi.

“Been here before?” John persisted.

Sherlock glanced over at him, said simply, “University,” and resumed woolgathering.

“Oh? That’s -- Sherlock. If you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, for whatever mysterious reasons of your own, that’s fine. But could you at least pretend it makes a difference to you whether I’m even here or not?”

Sherlock blinked a few times, then looked at John again, and this time it seemed that every molecule of his attention was focused on him. “Of course it makes a difference; don’t be an idiot,” he said. “I was merely processing everything we’d learned before I shared my conclusions. Look, we’re almost here. Let’s settle in and find something for you to eat, and then I’ll tell you everything I know.”

John held his friend’s penetrating gaze for a minute without wavering, then he nodded. “Okay then,” he said, back to his usual agreeable self. Sherlock furrowed his brow at John for a second, then slowly returned to staring out the window (albeit with a slightly more troubled expression, and occasionally shooting John suspicious looks out of the corner of his eye). Otherwise, they passed the last few minutes of the taxi ride in silence.

When they arrived at the place John presumed they were staying, he couldn’t help but let out a curious snort. It was a brightly colored Victorian townhouse with an ornate yellow-and-red brick facade, well-kept and practically dripping with flowers. Sherlock grinned, said “All for a good reason, trust me,” then got out and held the taxi door for John.

 

*** * ***

 

John waited until they’d checked in (enduring the inevitable comment about their relationship status), and dragged their things to their room, where… okay, there was one enormous bed and one sofa, which of course was sufficient for the two of them, since Sherlock preferred thinking on the sofa to sleeping while he was on cases anyway. But John supposed he could see where the comments might have been coming from… not that it was anyone’s business, regardless.

Right. Changing the subject, John said “Okay, it’s time to explain yourself. Start me off back at the hotel this morning. What did you find in Jeff’s email?” He threw his bag at the bed, then sat on the sofa with crossed arms and (he hoped) a stern expression.

“First, there’s what I found in the room, before I even got to his email,” Sherlock countered. “The fact that he left his laptop at all, for example. He changed out of his trousers into pyjamas, and the trousers remain in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the bed. He put on his shoes and coat, which must have contained his mobile phone and wallet, over his pyjamas. But he left everything else, including the laptop, even though there wasn’t very much and it could have been packed quite quickly. So either he intended to come back right away until something changed his mind, or he was upset enough when he left that he wasn’t thinking about his things. The email was very brief, but it confirmed that evidence: ‘Jeff - Bad news. Call ASAP. -Dr. Armstrong.’ Fortunately, a quick search of Staunton’s inbox told me that Dr. Armstrong was his Director of Studies, and that he would have been in class with her today had he not been out of town for a sporting event.”

“So Jeff gets this mysterious email from his Director of Studies, goes outside to the parking lot to return her call, and is never seen again. Meanwhile she knows he’s missing, and is hostile and defensive towards us,” John summarized. “Unfortunately she’s a dead end, or at least a brick wall. What’s our next move?”

“Hardly a dead end, John,” Sherlock replied. “In fact, that’s why we’re here. I chose this particular room for a reason.” He stood up and pulled back the curtain, and from the sofa John could see a tidy, quiet residential street. “Armstrong lives just over there, in the one with the blue door. I thought we could have a good, old-fashioned stake-out.” Sherlock let the curtain fall, and sat on the sofa next to John. “Well, I thought you could. Since I’m familiar with the area, I should scout around and see what she’s been up to recently. You can observe her house while I’m out, to see if anyone drops by, or reveals themselves to be inside.”

“Hang on… How’d you know where she lives? Was that in Jeff’s email, too?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “that wasn’t in his email. I told you, I studied here for University. Apparently they haven’t re-thought their computer security system all that much in the last decade.” He paused, then admitted, “And I may have learned a few things since then, too.”

John finally let his stern demeanor drop, and grinned along with Sherlock. “You sure you wouldn’t rather have backup out there?” he asked, knowing the answer but needing to try anyway.

“Certain. I’ll be less conspicuous and lighter on my feet alone, and you’ll be useful to me here, observing,” Sherlock said. “Besides, it’ll give you a couple of hours without me, to catch up on those repugnant webinars you insist on listening to.”

“Hey, that’s required ‘professional development.’ I don’t want to listen to them either, but it’s an easy way to get a few CME credits,” John complained. “If you’d let me go to more conferences I wouldn’t have to resort to webinars.”

“Focus, John. I shouldn’t be gone more than a couple of hours, and then we can regroup based on what I discover.” He rose and tightened his scarf. “If I hurry, I should be able to catch some of Dr. Armstrong’s students before they head home for the weekend.”

“All right. Fine. I’ll probably get some takeaway later... any preference?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Sherlock said absently, and then he was off. A moment later John saw him striding down the street towards the university, with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar up.

“Melodramatic git, isn’t he?” John muttered, and began logging into the NHS training database.


	4. Chapter 4

Seven hours, three webinars, and exactly half of each of their Thai takeaway dinners later, John was starting to lose control of his anxiety. Naturally, Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone or his texts.  Dr. Armstrong had returned home about an hour ago.  The rented room had long since grown dark, and any lights brighter than John’s laptop screen would interfere with his stakeout.  Which, speaking of, increasingly felt like NOT the place he should be; but he convinced himself that everything was fine, and Sherlock was fine, and the stakeout was the only constructive thing he was able to do right now anyway, so he should stay put.

However, hiding in the darkness only made him feel colder and more alone, and gave him ample opportunity to imagine all of the horrific dangers that might have befallen Sherlock.  He was starting to revisit the white-hot anxiety he felt when he saw Sherlock with the murderous cabbie, and the blind panic of the lab at Baskerville, and he knew the gut-wrenching pain of Sherlock’s fall was right around the corner.  To keep himself steady, John focused on how all of those traumas turned out to be manufactured, empty, pointless; and how all of them were inflicted upon him by Sherlock, for reasons Sherlock never felt it necessary to share with him until after the fact.  At least the heat of John’s anger kept the sharp, cold fear from clawing at his throat and constricting his breath.

At last, John heard footsteps in the hall that didn’t end up trailing away, and it was finally their lock a key slid into and turned.  He sprang to his feet just as the wedge of yellow light from the hall spilled into the room.  Then the overhead light switched on, revealing an irate Sherlock.  

“I had her, John.  I had her!” he shouted.  “There was absolutely no way she could have spotted me.  How did she know?” Sherlock ripped the scarf from his throat and hurled it on the floor, then yanked himself out of his coat and threw it at the sofa.  

“Well, Sherlock,” John said in a deceptively calm voice, “I’d have to have a SINGLE BLOODY CLUE what you’d been up to all day to be able to answer that.  But instead, I’ve been sitting here alone, in the dark, with absolutely no contact from you whatsoever, going out of my damn mind!”

Sherlock blinked, his rant completely derailed by the unexpected shock of John’s retaliation.  

“John, I --” he started, but John shut him down immediately.

“No, Sherlock, you are not going to leave me here cooped up all day with no information, then come in here raging at me like I did something wrong.  No, you are going to tell me right now what happened to you, from the time you left this room until you got back.  Otherwise I will walk out of here right now, and meet you at home when you’re done with whatever the hell you’re playing at.”  John’s voice remained steady, but his hand was starting to tremble slightly.

“John, I never --”

“NOW, Sherlock.”

“Yes.  Well.  I... did make it back to the pathology building in time to speak with a few of Dr. Armstrong’s students,” Sherlock said, looking remarkably chastened (for him).  “It seems she’s suspended office hours this week, and she leaves as soon as class is over.  I thought I was already too late to follow her, and decided to visit her other regular haunts to ask around.  But I turned out to be very lucky, and actually ran into her at the very first stop I made: a shopping complex not far from here.  She was coming out of the chemist’s with a rather large bag, and I slipped around the side of the building to avoid being seen.  I thought I’d been successful,” he said, with a wry twist to his mouth, “but she must have spotted me then, or at least become suspicious.  At any rate, she got into her vehicle and drove off.  But again, luck was with me - there was a Zipcar nearby, and I was able to follow her.”

“Of course there was, for you,” John said.  “Wait, how does that work?  I know you can reserve them with your mobile now, but how did you manage that fast enough not to lose her?”

“I have what you might call a ‘premium membership,’ thanks to Mycroft owing me over a little matter involving our cousin and the princess of Lichtenstein,” Sherlock said.  “It’s actually an entertaining case; remind me to tell you about it sometime.”

“And yet we spend how much on taxis?” John wondered aloud.

“When was the last time you saw a Zipcar in London that was parked and not in use?” Sherlock retorted.

“Okay… you may have a point,” John conceded.  Having the source of his frustrations back safe and within venting range was possibly starting to calm him down a little.  Maybe.  “Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was keeping a reasonable distance in rush hour, John.  And I was trained in driving manoeuvres by some of Mycroft’s best people.  No, she had to have known something was off right from the start.  There’s no way she could have noticed me in traffic, otherwise.”  Sherlock glared darkly at the floor for a minute, lost in thought, until John prodded him.

“And then?”  
  
“And then, just as I realized we’d gone nearly in a circle around the city, I turned a corner to find the car parked across the side street, and Armstrong leaning against it with her arms crossed,” Sherlock said.

“Seriously?”  John giggled.  “She’s got nerve, I’ll give her that.”

“It’s not funny, John!  Sherlock whined.  “She scolded me, like a misbehaving child!”  

John heroically resisted disagreeing or giggling further.  “Come on, Sherlock.  Out with it.  Summarize, if you must preserve your dignity, but I need to know.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped again as he said, “She said she knew I’d been following her, but that I wasn’t going to find anything that way.  That I may as well go back to London and stop wasting everyone’s time and energy, and my employer’s money.  Because wherever Staunton was, and whatever he was doing, he clearly wasn’t going to be found until he wanted to be found, and that everyone needed to respect that.”  Here, Sherlock’s embarrassed childish tantrum finally gave way to The Face, as John once called it.  Obviously, he expected the next leap to be as clear to John as it was to himself.

“...And?” John said pointedly, after a minute.  

“Well obviously, she knows the answer to ‘wherever Staunton is and whatever he’s doing,’ and her last comment proves that she’s personally invested in the matter.  That means she has a blind spot, a weakness that we can exploit, to get that information.  She’ll be emotional, she won’t be thinking as clearly as she could be, she’ll make mistakes.  And then, we’ll have her!”  Sherlock cried.  “And… and then, we’ll find Staunton,” he added, clearly as an afterthought but before John could glare at him.

“I don’t know about ‘we,’ but I’m glad I’m being included again,” John said.  “What happened then, you just let her drive off?”

“John, I know may not always find it worth my time to uphold social conventions, but you do realize I’m not actually an unhinged lunatic?  Of course I let her drive off.  I didn’t want her involving the police, for one thing.”  

“Right.  Sorry,” John said.

“But I did give her a 10 minute head start and then I followed her,” Sherlock said, grinning.  “Didn’t do me any good though.  She could have made any one of a dozen turns in that time.  I did investigate the three most likely for a few hours, to see if I could pick up her trail, but no such luck.  That’s why it took so long,” he concluded, “and why I was ignoring my phone.  What did your surveillance yield?”  Sherlock said, never actually apologizing.

“Well, another woman came home about 6PM.  I presume she lives there.  60s, long brown hair pulled back, dressed sort of bohemian, in a skirt and frilly blouse.”

“That’d be Anne Roberts, Dr. Armstrong’s wife.  She was an English Lit professor when they met, but she’s since become the chair of a national nonprofit that advocates for gay and transgender youth.  Did anything interesting happen?”  Sherlock asked.

“Not a thing.  She showed up, went inside, and the downstairs lights went on.  A couple of hours later, Armstrong showed up, dragged the bins around from the back garden, and went in.  An hour after that, you came home.”  John sighed.  “It’s been a rather long day.”

“I hadn’t anticipated being gone so long,” Sherlock replied, still not quite apologizing, “and I hate that so little came of it.  But I do think your day was a bit more fruitful than mine… if Roberts came home separately and hours apart from Armstrong, it’s not likely she’s involved.  Still a possibility, but I won’t concentrate my efforts on her until more evidence points in her direction.”  

Sherlock flopped bonelessly into the corner of the sofa, and reached for his laptop.  “Did you save me any of the pad thai?  I’m not really in the mood for mussaman curry.”  

“I figured, but there’s both,” John said, “although you have to fix it for yourself.  I’m knackered.”  

“Oh, I’ll have it cold,” Sherlock said.  “Pass it over.”  He looked up from the laptop and turned his wide blue eyes on John.  “Tea?” he asked, hopefully.

“Fat chance,” John snorted, although he did retrieve the takeaway from the hotel mini-fridge and dropped it on the table next to Sherlock.  “Goodnight, Sherlock… do whatever you want, you won’t keep me up; I’m done in.”  He crawled into bed and threw his arm over his eyes, and, truly a soldier, was snoring in minutes.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock murmured, then he got up and slipped quietly from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

“John!  Wake up!” Sherlock shouted, six inches from John’s face, then shook him roughly by the shoulder.  “I want to get going!”

“Nngh, what,” John mumbled.  “You... Sherlock.  What time is it?”  

“Five twenty three AM,” Sherlock announced, smiling superficially.  “Here’s some tea.  Let’s get moving!”  Sherlock thrust a paper cup of the hot brown water that purported to be tea from the vending machine in the lobby.  John had never yet had a proper cuppa from one of those, and he shot the cup a look of suffering and disgust.  But he sat up and took it anyway.  The first couple of sips flooded through him restoratively, and he was able to run his hands through his hair and swing his feet to the floor.

“Where exactly are we ‘getting going’ off to?” was his first coherent statement.

“First, you should know what I’ve been doing since you went to sleep.  When you asked about the Zipcar account, you reminded me that Mycroft still owed me a  favor from a more recent case.  So I called him and ordered one of those hateful little tracking devices he uses, and he sent it over in a car with Anthea.  I went out and put it on Armstrong’s car about two hours ago.  It’s a low-range frequency, so we have to wait for her to go out and come home again, and then we can log in and see where she’s been.”

“Brilliant!” John couldn’t help exclaiming, although he was still trying to be cross with Sherlock.  But he couldn't help thawing a little at the way Sherlock positively beamed at his praise.  “So, what do you have planned for us in the meantime?”

“Well, you could stay here and keep an eye on Armstrong’s house again --”

“No, absolutely not.”

“--or you could commit a tiny bit of fraud, and phone me in a prescription at the chemist’s where I ran into Dr. Armstrong yesterday, so I have an excuse to have a bit of a look around,” Sherlock said in a rush.

John took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to buy time.  Of all the quasi-legal gray areas they usually flirted with, the one thing John didn’t want to risk was his career.  He was afraid their lives may one day depend on his good standing in the medical profession.  And writing prescriptions for a friend was bad enough, but for a celebrity ex-addict like Sherlock… but in the end, he knew he was always going to say yes to Sherlock.  He really couldn’t do otherwise.

“Okay, here’s what I’m willing to do.  We’ll say that you were here, in the labs at Cambridge, and while experimenting you gave yourself a nasty gash and you need some antibiotics.  I won’t write it for you, but I’ll call Sarah and ask her to do it.  And if you’re lucky, she’ll say yes.”

Sherlock thought about it for a second, then nodded.  “Reasonable enough precautions, I suppose,” he said.  “Hurry up and do that, then, so we can get on with it!”  

“Think about it, Sherlock.  What time is it?”  John asked.

“I already told you, John… although now it’s five thirty seven AM.  Is there a reason you’re making me repeat myself?”

“It’s too early to call Sarah, and the chemist’s isn’t even open yet,” John said, and held up a hand to forestall a tantrum when he saw how Sherlock’s face darkened.  “But let’s get going anyway,” he offered.  “I can at least get some kind of food and maybe some proper tea, even if you aren’t going to eat.  And then we can call Sarah from the road.”

 

*** * ***

 

It was nearly two hours before John was willing to call Sarah, and although Sherlock (surprisingly) didn’t nag John too much, John couldn’t help but notice all the fidgeting and loud sighing.  Still, if Sherlock wasn’t going to actually say anything, John was damn well going to take advantage and follow up on that breakfast he was fantasizing about. Anyway, it would make them less memorable if they visited the chemist’s at a reasonable time, as opposed to being the oddly enthusiastic blokes who popped in right after opening.

“Okay,” John said at last, “it should be ready by the time we walk over there.”  

“Finally!” Sherlock cried, and leapt to his feet.  He was out of the restaurant and pacing on the pavement before John could even get money out of his wallet to settle the bill.

When they arrived at the chemist’s, there was a bit of a crowd.  Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes impatiently, but his performance failed to hurry the elderly grandmother who was consulting with the head chemist.  

“But what I want to know is, how will it affect my heart condition?” yelled the pensioner repeatedly, apparently unable to hear the chemist’s reassurances that it would not.  

Eventually, a trainee chemist opened a second register at the counter, and called the second person in line.  “Hello, Mr. Hollister,” said the trainee, a fresh-faced youngster that may have in fact been a Cambridge student himself.

“Hi, Owen.  Here to pick up for Jason,” said Mr. Hollister.  He looked tired, and not from one night of poor rest; the creases in his face seemed bone-deep.  

The elderly lady in the next queue whined, “And you’re sure this won’t be a problem with my irregular heartbeat?”   

“And how is Jason?”  Owen asked Mr. Hollister, then turned to the rack of filled prescriptions waiting to be picked up, and started gathering multiple packages.

“Oh, you know… still Jason, cheerful as ever,” said Mr. Hollister, with a weak and trembling smile.  

Owen winced a bit, then put on a more cheerful expression as he handed Mr. Hollister the sack of prescriptions. “Well, tell him me and the lads at school are thinking about him,” Owen said.

“I will, Owen.  It… it means a lot to him,” Mr. Hollister said, struggling to maintain his composure.  “Right.  Well, I’ll be seeing you, I’m sure,” he said, and turned away from the counter.

“And what sorts of interactions will this have with my high blood pressure medication?” demanded the elderly woman, glaring at the head chemist.

Sherlock seized this opportunity to push ahead and took his place at the counter.  “Hello,” he smiled, “I’m here for some Keflex… it’s under Holmes?  Thank you so much,” he said, then shot the old lady a nasty look for letting her umbrella drift into his personal space **.**

 

*** * ***

 

When he decided they were far enough away from the chemist’s, John asked “Did you see what you needed to?”  

Sherlock glowered.  “I hardly expected to get a lead on Dr. Armstrong as soon as I walked in, of course.  But I had seven different schemes for getting a glimpse of her records, and none of them worked!”  

John suppressed a giggle at his friend’s disappointment.  Amusing as it might be to watch Sherlock nearly stomp his feet in a childish tantrum, getting Sherlock to turn on him was the last thing John wanted.

“So what now?” he asked.

“I have an idea or two,” Sherlock said evasively.  “Come on, the first stop’s only a couple of blocks from here.”  

 


	6. Chapter 6

At first, John thought they were chasing down Dr. Armstrong’s backtrail to investigate her routine. But as the day wore on, John became increasingly suspicious that Sherlock was just touring John around Cambridge to show him the sights. John thought there’d been enough friction between them already this weekend, and he didn’t want to shatter the fragile peace they’d established by asking. He resolved to go back to his attitude of “follow Sherlock’s lead and hope the case’s entertainment value lasts as long as possible,” if he could.

After he made the decision to let go of his irritation, John had to admit to himself that he was starting to have a good time. They popped in and out of classrooms in the sciences buildings, ancient tiny niche museums, arcane shops supplying academics with research materials of all kinds, and finally, after John started staggering on his feet a little bit (“I did not faint,” he insisted, but Sherlock’s small frown suggested disbelief), they stopped at a restaurant for John to get a sandwich (and pretend he didn’t notice Sherlock stealing all the chips). While they were there, they saw on the telly bolted above the bar that the rugby match had happened, and that Cambridge had indeed lost without Staunton. John felt a bit of a pang when he realized they weren’t going to carry off a tidy little miracle on this case, but he tried to remain confident that they’d wrap it up soon enough.

Having exhausted not only themselves, but the possibilities of exploring Cambridge, they went back to their rooms to await the return of the tracking device. John expected Sherlock to be restless and irritable for the unknown length of time they had to kill until Armstrong returned home. Instead, he was perfectly content to spend the afternoon in the common room of the bed and breakfast with John, watching rubbish game shows and shouting at the contestants. All in all, it was a pleasant day, much to John’s delight -- and slight surprise.

And then, during a commercial break, Sherlock reached for his laptop. “She’s not home yet, I’m just checking my email…” he said, distracted. “I don’t expect her to -- oh.”

“Oh,” he said again, and something in his voice made John get up, walk behind Sherlock’s chair, and read over his shoulder --

 

> Mr. Holmes,
> 
> I found your little device on my vehicle this morning. I also presume that it’s you or your partner who’s watching my house from the room across the street. I advise you to cease and desist all attempts to invade my privacy, or I shall have to contact the police.
> 
> You’re not going to discover anything following me anyway, Mr. Holmes. Go back to London and leave us in peace.
> 
> -Dr. L. Armstrong

 

Sherlock had gone completely still, with his fingers steepled under his nose, staring at the laptop with a glittering animosity John had last seen at the pool where Moriarty was trying to kill them.

“All right?” John asked quietly.

For a long moment Sherlock said nothing. Then he murmured, “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You sure, mate? You look a bit… green,” John said. Again, Sherlock neither moved nor spoke (for too long, John thought), but then he turned his head, took a deep breath, and dived into a frantic monologue.

“Fine, John. Yes. Absolutely fine. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve only traveled halfway ‘round England for what should have been a stupidly easy case, only to have it thwarted at every turn, and on the very campus one might consider to be my home ground. It’s a good thing Dr. Armstrong decided to pursue academia instead of her own gain, because she could have given Moriarty a run for his money.”

John couldn’t help a cold shiver that ran from his scalp all the way down his spine. “Oh come off it, she’s never so much as threatened you. She’s only told you to bugger off in no uncertain terms, which while annoying, is perfectly within her rights. She’s hardly as bad as… him,” John said, unwilling even still to say the villain’s name, but trying not to let it show.

Sherlock’s eyes went icy with John’s scolding. “Well, don’t be an idiot; she must have something to do with it. She wouldn’t be behaving this way otherwise. But what? She didn’t kidnap Staunton, that much is obvious from her hair and clothing. It’s also clear she knows he’s alive, and I’m 96% certain that she knows where he is. In fact, that’s almost definitely where she’s going instead of office hours. So far, so obvious. But where is Staunton, and what’s keeping him there if not Armstrong? She’s worried about him, but not because she fears for his life. And yet, her level of hostility towards us indicates it must be life-or-death, so… someone else’s life. Someone important to him. She’s protecting him and keeping him in hiding because someone else’s life is at stake? But that doesn’t make sense! Why would she do that? Why?”

“Well, Sherlock, I guess you’d have to care what your friends feel like when someone they love is dying to be able to work that one out,” John said with a carefully blank expression.

“Why John, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you weren’t grateful that I took this case as a personal favor to you. But yet here you are, criticizing me for taking an interest. It almost seems as though it’s impossible to live up to your high standards, whether I make an effort or not.”

“It’s not living up to my standards I’m worried about, Sherlock! It’s your terrifying tendency to obsess about beating someone so much that you don’t even realize -- “ John clenched and unclenched his hands a few times and took a deep breath.

“What, John? What could I possibly not realize that you with all your staggering intellect could pick up on? “ Sherlock snapped. “Enlighten me.”

John was visibly taken aback, as though he’d been physically hit by the words. “Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said, his voice thick and cracking. “How about the fact that even after all the times you rushed headlong into danger by yourself to prove you were right and almost died, you still haven’t learned to take my advice, or even take me with you. Even this case, which was supposed to be about finding a missing kid, has deteriorated into your usual frantic pissing contest with another psychopath, and you don’t give a _damn_ about who’s suffering in the meantime. No, Sherlock --” John interrupted himself to forestall Sherlock’s argument the second he saw his friend’s mouth open, “I am going to say this, and you are going to listen. If this thing with Dr. Armstrong is so important to you… fine. That’s fine. You go… battle her in a duel of wits, or whatever. Meanwhile, despite being a mere mortal that can barely comprehend your level of genius, I am going to go out tomorrow and do my best to find Jeff Staunton. Because maybe I’m an idiot, and maybe me and my concerns aren’t… aren’t worth your precious attention, but it’s important to me that someone find this kid, and make sure he’s safe. If you want to pursue this side-show diversion that you think is the second coming of Moriarty, I won't stop you. But this time, when you’ve got your teeth so deep in it that you don’t even realize you’re following it off the edge of a cliff -- “ John closed his eyes for a second, and made a small noise like a sob “--this time, it won’t be you forgetting to take me along. This time it’ll be you, walking away from me. Because I am done, Sherlock. I’m done trying to make you care about how you make other people feel. It’s your choice. And now, I’m going to leave you to think about that, and I’m going to go upstairs to bed. You can try to talk me out of being angry at you tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s focus drew back from the middle distance and locked onto John. Eyes wide, he said, “John, I --”

“Save it, Sherlock,” John said, with a raised hand. “I don’t have the energy for a verbal sparring match right now. You can argue me out of being angry with you tomorrow. Right now I just want to go to bed.”

“Really, John, I’m --”

“Good night, Sherlock,” John called down the stairs, and then his door clicked shut.

“--sorry,” concluded Sherlock, to the empty room.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning John didn’t wake nose-to-nose with an impatient detective.  He opened his eyes cautiously, determined that Sherlock was lying on the sofa, then yawned and stretched ostentatiously to reinforce how nice it was to be waking up of his own free will (although he doubted Sherlock would get the message).

It was then that John remembered that he was supposed to be furious with Sherlock.  Maybe it was the good night’s sleep, or the cheerful blue sky and sunshine just visible around the edges of the curtains, but the worst John could summon up was a resigned fatigue.  It had finally happened, he thought; Sherlock had worn out his ability to be outraged through overuse.  John sighed and dragged his hands through his hair.  There was no point in expecting Sherlock to change… and then he supposed he couldn’t excuse himself either, considering he continued to tolerate Sherlock’s poor behavior as part of their relationship.  

John shrugged off his introspection as pointless (as usual), and struggled to his feet, intending to stagger off toward the bathroom.  He paused, did a double take, and confirmed that there was a handcuff dangling from one of Sherlock’s wrists.  

“Good morning, Sherlock,” he said, arching an eyebrow at the new accessory.  “Anything I should know about?”

“Just practicing,” Sherlock replied, and then John saw that his cuffed hand was holding a safety pin and attempting to lock-pick itself to freedom.  After a moment the cuff popped open, and Sherlock caught it and snapped it onto the other wrist.

“Not both at once?” John asked.

“The other one’s still broken,” Sherlock said.  “It won’t latch properly.”

“Still?” John asked.  “Should I remember that?”

“Well, you were in them when it happened,” Sherlock drawled, and they stared blandly at each other for a second before both of them broke into helpless giggles.

“Really, at Kitty Riley’s flat?  You kept those?”  John finally managed to ask.

“It was more like they still happened to be in my possession at the time that I… left, and I just… failed to get rid of them.  And then I realized the whole incident pointed out a critical gap in my skills, so I kept them to practice.  As you can see,” Sherlock said, as he popped the lock open again, “I’ve gotten quite good.”

“I get it.  Totally practical, not a souvenir at all,” John said, then cleared his throat and attempted to look serious.  This lasted for all of three seconds, before he and Sherlock both cracked up again.  “You should see if Greg’s people know where to get them fixed, so you can start using them on cases again.”

“If you insist, John,” Sherlock said, sitting up and slipping the handcuffs into the pocket of his dressing gown.  “In other news, I’ve figured out where Jeff Staunton is, if you’re curious.”

“You -- Sherlock!  How is this not -- yes, let’s go!”  John sputtered.

“Oh, don’t worry, he’s not in danger, and he’s not going anywhere.  And as you pointed out yesterday, it’s a little too early for a social call.  Get dressed, and we’ll go back to that café you liked for breakfast,” Sherlock said.  

“Ha, that you liked, you mean,” John retorted, “and this time you’re getting your own Danish.”

“If you want _any_ Danish, John, I suggest we get moving,” Sherlock said, starting off for the bathroom.  Then he hesitated and turned back to say, “Staunton may not be going anywhere for a while, but I’d like to get this resolved and go home.  We’ve been away from Baker Street long enough as it is.”

“Agreed,” John said, cutting around Sherlock and getting into the bathroom first.  

Sherlock was smiling as the door shut in his face.

 

*** * ***

 

Sherlock refused to explain until John was settled in a squashy armchair at the back of the café, and had started working on his tea and what appeared to be the world's largest Danish.  “Okay, you really know where he is?” John mumbled, his mouth full of pastry.  “How’d you do it?”

“Well, after we -- after you… went to bed last night, I realized I’d been so focused on Armstrong I may not have... considered all of our options,” Sherlock said, carefully looking at his coffee and not at John.

“Took you long enough,” John muttered, pretending to look exasperated, and Sherlock pretended not to grin before continuing.  

“Yes.  So it occurred to me that Staunton probably had many acquaintances who could provide me with what were perhaps weaker leads, but then, they were also considerably less clever at hiding anything from me.  And I was right, I didn’t even have to interview anyone in person; just their Facebook profiles were enough.

“But what, ultimately, was I searching for?  As I combed through Staunton’s contacts looking for anything that might indicate his whereabouts, I realized I still didn’t have the slightest idea what would have motivated him to disappear, or where he could have gone without telling anybody.  I was also thinking about how… um.  That no matter what problems we’ve faced, you’ve always… stood by me.  I wondered if that’s what Staunton might be doing right now -- standing by a friend in crisis.  Armstrong’s extreme hostility indicates someone’s life is likely at stake, remember?  But who?

“Dr. Armstrong’s involvement also means it’s someone Staunton knows through the university.  Yet the need for secrecy suggests something of a deeply personal and potentially sensational nature.  The length and frequency of Armstrong’s disappearances suggest Staunton and his friend would be nearby.  With those data points and access to Facebook and the University’s database, it was child’s play to narrow Staunton’s acquaintances down to a name I already recognized - Jason Hollister.”  Sherlock smugly examined his fingernails and waited for John’s reaction.

“Hang on, the man at the chemist’s yesterday?” John asked, incredulous.

“His son, the patient for whom he was picking up medications,” Sherlock said.  “Jason Hollister, medical student at Cambridge; only 23 years old and losing an ugly battle to cancer.  I didn’t even need to see the local news story to learn that much; the fundraiser photos were all over Facebook.”

“And he’s one of Jeff’s mates?” John asked.

“Well, that’s the odd thing.  They both appear in the photos of several social events they both attended, but never directly interacting with one another.  They’re in the same college at Cambridge, but have never taken a class together.  According to Cambridge records they even come from the same village, and yet they appear to have never met.  And now, tragically, Jason’s illness has progressed to the point where he’s withdrawn from school for medical reasons.  The very day that Staunton disappeared, in fact.”  Sherlock paused and made The Face at John, indicating that the rest should be obvious.  

“So you think Jeff’s gone to be with Jason in his last hours,” John said.  “But why, if they aren’t friendly?  And if they are, why doesn’t anyone know that they are?  And why wouldn’t Jeff check in, if that’s where he is?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea, but I’m prepared to go find out,” Sherlock said, passing John a scrap of paper with an address on it.

 

*** * ***

 

By the time they arrived at the Hollister residence, the temperature had dropped significantly, and the sky was turning gray in a way that threatened rain.  Sherlock strode up the three steps to the door and knocked; John moved into position on the lower step behind him.  They could hear people moving around inside, but they waited at the door for quite some time.  Sherlock knocked again, louder, and called “Hello!” and finally it opened, revealing the man from the chemist’s shop, looking significantly worse for wear.  His flat eyes looked at Sherlock, then at John, then back to Sherlock, but there was no spark of sense in them.

“Hello, Mr. Hollister, may we come in?” Sherlock asked, sounding gentle, but taking full advantage of the man’s evident shock to slip into the house past him.  Sherlock started poking around in the entryway, then made off for the sitting room.

“Of course,” said the man who must be Mr. Hollister, “you must be the Macmillan nurses.  Thank you for coming, gentlemen, but--” his voice broke.

“Mr. Hollister, is Jeff here?”  Sherlock asked, now back in the entryway with them, and looking towards the stairs.  

Mr. Hollister made a peculiar noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and slid down along the doorframe a few inches.  John rushed to catch him, then guided him inside.  As he was settling the man into an armchair in the sitting room, John shot Sherlock an alarmed look.  Sherlock merely stared back, wide-eyed.

“Jeff,” Mr. Hollister said distantly, as though he were trying to translate a foreign language.  “Yes, Jeff is -- he’s upstairs with Jason,” he managed, then bowed his head into his hands and began to weep audibly.  John patted Mr. Hollister’s back awkwardly, and Mr. Hollister straightened and cleared his throat.  “But like I was saying, you’re too late.  Jason just -- he’s… gone,” he said, eyes welling again.

“Sherlock,” John said, furrowing his eyebrows aggressively at him in a “you’d better tell me what’s going on before I lose it” fashion, but Sherlock just stood there in the entryway, staring strangely at John and Mr. Hollister.  

“Mr. Hollister,” John tried next, “are you okay here for a bit?  I just need to speak with my friend for a minute.  We’ll be right back.”  But John got no more of a reaction from the man than he had from Sherlock.  

Then, just as the sound of broken sobbing began upstairs, another knock came at the door.  The three of them continued to look at each other until finally the door swung open and a familiar figure entered the room.

“Mr. Hollister, we’ve come with the -- “ said Dr. Armstrong, trailing off when she realized who was present.

“You,” she said, in an odd, flat tone.  (Perhaps it was just lack of the hostility she’d consistently shown them in previous meetings.)  “I should have known you would -- never mind.”  She turned to the people behind her and said, “Come in.”

Several nurses or paramedics and two women in business-professional clothes entered the house, one of whom guided Mr. Hollister to another room, presumably to deal with his grief in private.  The rest went upstairs to take care of Jeff and Jason.  That left Dr. Armstrong alone with John and Sherlock, who had finally snapped out of his paralysis and was striding toward her with a look of concern John could almost believe was sincere.  She saw Sherlock coming, however, and shrugged him off with a hateful look.

“Keep your sympathies, Mr. Holmes.  How dare you be here at this time,” she said, her voice still strangely emotionless.

“Dr. Armstrong, I am incredibly sorry for what’s happened here today, and for intruding on it,” Sherlock said.  John waited for the “but,” but it never came.

Dr. Armstrong sighed, and then John could see her red-rimmed eyes, and recognized her apparent calm for exhaustion and grief.  “Get out of here, Holmes,” she said with no real conviction.  “You’ll not profit off of this family’s sadness.”

“I assure you, Doctor, I’m not here to interfere in any way.  Clearly nothing criminal has happened, and my client, Jeff’s coach, only wanted me to determine whether Jeff was in danger and needing assistance due to his mysterious disappearance.  As far as I’m concerned, that job is done -- I found him, and I see no need to disturb him.  Nor will anyone else.”  Sherlock spoke in a low, soothing tone, but John could hear the dangerous hardness underneath his last sentence.

Apparently Armstrong could too, because she studied Sherlock’s face, brows furrowed, for a long minute.  Finally, she nodded.  “I believe you,” she said.  “Now go.”

“I’m just wondering,” Sherlock continued, “on a purely personal level, mind you; why was it so important to protect them, if there was a perfectly legitimate reason for Jeff's disappearance?  Why were you so determined to throw me off, when a short and civil conversation would have ended my involvement?  It’s not to protect the family’s privacy; they’ve been all over the news with the fundraiser already.”

Armstrong closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “You’ll have noticed that, publicly, the boys aren’t acquainted,” she said.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“The Lord Mount-James,” Armstrong said his name like every syllable pained her, “would not approve.”

“I see,” he replied.

“Do you?” Armstrong asked, one eyebrow raised.  “Do you see how these kids had to tear themselves apart from the day they found each other, because if anyone knew, Jeff’s future would be over?  And not just the damned inheritance, not just his only flesh and blood rejecting him for who he loves, but his Cambridge education, and any chance of a good career outside of rugby.  Which would also be over, as the Lord Mount-James is a powerful man, and his whims can close doors as well as open them.”

“Believe me,” John interrupted, with a dangerous light in his eyes, “I’ve seen what can happen to an ordinary girl from Chelmsford with no rich uncle to worry about, and no chance of Cambridge from the beginning, and so I quite. Understand.”

Armstrong and Sherlock both turned to John, taken aback.  “You were saying?” John asked, in a mild conversational tone, but his eyes were still hard and relentless.  Armstrong slowly turned back to Sherlock and resumed speaking, but Sherlock stared at John for a few seconds longer, with the same stricken look he was wearing the moment Armstrong arrived.

“Yes.  Well.  Fortunately, Jason’s parents are supportive of their relationship,” she said.  “And Jeff was hoping they’d only have to hide from His Lordship for a few years at most, until Jeff was established on his own merits.  The boys met before Cambridge and enrolled together.  I was assigned to be their Director of Studies, and when they found out about Anne and her work, they came to me for advice.  I didn’t really want to encourage them to hide their relationship, but I understood, having been through similar times myself.  It’s harder being out than you might think,” she said, shooting John a look. "Especially at their age."

“Hmm,” was all he said, nodding at her with that glittering, almost feral smile.

“Anne and I grew very close to the boys over the years, and when Jason fell ill --” she paused for a minute to collect herself.  “We became close to the Hollisters, too.  Jeff’s tried to live as normally as possible, and I’ve helped him with his academics as much as I could, but when Jason took a turn for the worse -- I don’t regret calling him home.”

“Nor should you,” Sherlock said.  “Thank you, Doctor Armstrong.  And again, I’m very sorry.”  

“You’re most welcome, Mr. Holmes.  And now, if you don’t mind, please -- go home.”  She opened the front door, then walked away and upstairs, leaving them to see themselves out.

“Let’s go, John,” Sherlock said, grabbing the hem of John’s coat sleeve and pulling him from the darkness of that house into the weak winter light.  
  
  
  
**~THE END~**

**Author's Note:**

> While this could pass for gen I guess and you only have my word that it's really, definitely pre-slash, I do sort of vaguely have a sequel in mind. But at the rate I write vs. the number of stories in my head, I may or may not ever get around to writing it. Talk about slow-burn! ;)


End file.
